


Still

by AlexisGreen



Category: Muse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisGreen/pseuds/AlexisGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Meagre attempt at a drabble; repost from LJ.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Still

**Author's Note:**

> Meagre attempt at a drabble; repost from LJ.

I stare at him and marvel. By now, most people I know would ask me when do I not? And I normally agree, I nod my head and smile indulgently because they’re right. There’s no reason to argue. I take pride in being proud of him.

Except he is no longer the boy I grew up with, and he’s very little like the man I fell in love with.

He's still the same on the outside, those eyes who seem to know my darkest secrets, those hands that speak a thousand words within the space of two breaths. He still walks the same, with small and hurried steps, as if he's constantly running late for some appointment; he still cuddles up to me at night, and nearly smothers me with his hugs. And when he talks, his voice still belies his restlessness, that exploration anxiety which has ignited so many of his passions and driven him to become the man he is today.

Somewhere along our journey, he has seen things I can’t explain; he has discovered the meaning to a life I cannot fathom. I see it in the way his ideas fight to surface, the way his hands can’t seem to keep up when typing everything on his ever-present computer. His perceptions have changed; he no longer sees people, objects, streets and parks. He sees connections; the link between a lonely antiquarian in Madrid and a flight attendant boarding a plane in Cape Town, or between the fall of a flowerpot from a windowsill in Greenwich and two girls out on a karaoke night in Osaka. His brilliant mind has unlocked mysteries others can only dream of. Mysteries I can only dream of. And yet, he’s still here, with me.

There are butterflies on the wall next to our table, in this quaint riverside café. Small, blue and red paper butterflies glued to the wall, gracing a trompe l’oeil countryside scene. I’ve been examining them while sipping my coffee, pretending not to stare at him. I already counted over two hundred, their detail astounding and fairy-tale-like, an oasis in our city of concrete.

Long fingers curl around my hand and rest together on the table. My attention goes back to him, overtly. We are so different, him and I, like summer and winter, Achilles and Hector, two men on different planes of the battlefield. And yet, we’re here together. He pushes a piece into my hand, and I look down to find a faded butterfly, picked from the wall.

He’s watching me, penetrating, fiery eyes all knowing, mapping my every thought with scary precision. And then he smiles, just a tiny quirk of those thin lips, but it’s enough. I don’t know what he sees, but my world is better, my universe is brighter.

His eyes urge me to look down again, and a flutter of wings tickles my skin. In my palm, the butterfly now lives. I almost feel its heartbeat, its innocence as it teeters on the edge of escape. My own heart cannot suppress its surprise; joy bubbles inside of me, and first tears gather just beneath my eyelids.

My rush of breath finally disturbs the little, perfect creature and it takes flight, and with him, the hundred butterflies on the wall, wings beating in sync, searching for light.

Long fingers are still curled around my hand, and I still stare and marvel at him. He is not the man I fell in love with. He is so much more. He is perfect.

 

 


End file.
